


Smoking, Hot

by Anonymous



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Community: cabinpres_fic, M/M, Smoking, Yearning, one-sided Douglas/Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/1249.html?thread=1759201#t1759201">Douglas finds a stressed out Martin smoking some of his smuggled cigarettes and finds it unexpectedly very, very, sexy.</a></p><p>Warning: smoking can be hazardous to your health. Author does not smoke and does not endorse smoking. Author does, however, endorse oral fixation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoking, Hot

It had been a stressful flight. Even Douglas had to admit (to himself alone, of course) that the constant clouds and trembling of the old girl rattled him. They'd been the last to receive take-off permission in a long queue of bigger planes, and they'd had to circle around Fitton for forty-five minutes before receiving permission to land. Carolyn had snapped at both of them through the satcom, Arthur had been incessantly cheery, and they'd also snapped at each other over Douglas' latest 'shopping spree'.

Douglas watched Martin storm out of the portacabin as soon as the minimal formalities were done. His spine was held stiffly, his lips were white from being pressed together against who knows what sharp words that Martin had learned the hard way he'd be the one to regret saying. Douglas considered it. Perhaps he should try to pacify him. It took so little to appease Martin, if one knew the right buttons to push, and this time it truly hadn't been Martin's fault. When Martin took too long to return, even though there was still the precious logbook to do, Douglas jumped out of his chair, determined. He wanted to go home, and any delay was just adding insult to injury.

He was treading lightly, to keep from spooking Martin, and that's how he was treated to the rare sight of Martin assaulting a pack of cigarettes. Douglas' eyebrows rose. If he was not mistaken - and he never was - those were _his_ cigarettes.

Martin ripped at the thin plastic gracelessly, then almost pulled the carton apart in his haste. Douglas' remark about the cost of fine Greek cigarettes warred with his curiosity about Martin's purpose in defiling his merchandise. Apart from being against the smuggling thereof, the Captain had never shown any interest in the tobacco industry and assorted products.

Curiosity won, and Douglas regarded with mild interest as Martin shook loose a cigarette (another one fell on the ground) and caught it between his lips. One hand curled to shield it from the wind, while the other clicked the lighter impatiently. Martin's hands were shaking and the lighter zinged fruitlessly for a few times before the fire finally caught.

Despite the current nervousness, the gestures were obviously familiar, practised; not Martin's first fumble with a cigarette, then, Douglas thought of saying. The jibe died on his lips, however, along with his superior smile: Martin put the lighter in his pocket, took the cigarette between forefinger and thumb, and sucked in a deep, greedy inhale.

Douglas was a few feet away, but he still heard the hiss of air rushing through the filter, drawn between Martin's lips. Douglas watched, transfixed, as Martin's cheeks hollowed to create that strong suction; the glowing tip of the cigarette advanced rapidly, leaving nothing but burnt cinders behind.

The first shuddering exhale left Martin's lungs, and Martin leaned his head back, against the wall of the neighbouring portacabin. Douglas could see his profile, fuzzily drawn against the peeling off-white wall, surrounded by a growing mist of smoke. His lips were pursed outwards now, expelling the smoke in an angry column that the wind caught and played with, twirling it into random shapes.

Douglas didn't know what Martin might have read in those shapes; his own eyes were glued to the sight of Martin's lips and cheeks. The next inhale was just as rushed and greedy as the first one, and Douglas caught himself listening avidly for that rush of air, imagining the driving force behind it, imagining Martin's tongue making a hot wet tunnel for that air...

Douglas caught the moan before it could form in his throat, but couldn't prevent his cock from hardening. He might have blushed, if he still had any shame over his libido. Instead, he noted with amazement that he'd never considered Martin's lips in _that_ way. Not even when he just wanted to make him shut up, not even when he was feeling amused and Martin looked so silly and he'd had a fleeting thought to plant a Bugs Bunny-like kiss on his lips.

Douglas didn't smoke. He'd given it the requisite try, and he'd discarded it as unpleasant and unnecessary, for he was Douglas Richardson and had enough pulling techniques without having to rely on props. Watching people smoke, however, was a different matter.

Not just any people, though. Only certain women looked hot when they smoked. (Helena did, before she discovered healthy life-style and tai-chi.)

And it wasn't only women.

He remembered Tyler Stetson, his occasional co-pilot at Air England. Tyler had also looked like that when smoking. Douglas had stared at him, unaware that he was staring, until Tyler had finished his cigarette, stubbed it on the ground with a careless (carelessly calculated) gesture, and turned to look straight at Douglas.

"Correct me if I've read the signals wrong," Tyler drawled, "but I think you'd like me to do the same to you."

Douglas recovered his cool in time to reply in an equally calculated drawl. "Ah, I'm afraid you've definitely got them wrong..."

Tyler's smile began fading.

"...if you think I want you to set fire to my cock and then stomp on it. _Sucking_ on it, however, the way you just fellated that cigarette before so cruelly discarding it, I might be persuaded to allow you to do..."

Tyler had laughed, good-naturedly, because ribbing was supposed to be part of basic pilot training, dammit, and then the night had gone on to the mutual satisfaction of both parts.

If he'd been in a movie, Douglas thought as the memory faded and he came back to the present, this would have been a blue-grey flashback, starting from the cloud of smoke surrounding Martin, and when he returned from the flashback, Martin would be looking right back at him with a knowing look. He might even remove the cigarette from his lips, and replace it with Douglas' tongue.

But he wasn't in a movie; that had been then, and this was now.

He wasn't just considering Martin's lips around his cock - although he was, and said member got harder at the mere thought. He wanted to know how those strong, red lips would feel between his. He wanted to push his tongue between them, to coax them apart and savour the lingering taste of smoke on Martin's tongue. Douglas wanted to cup Martin's cheeks in his palms and feel Martin's breath on his skin. And, yes, he wanted to feel Martin's lips close around his nipples, suck on his neck, stretch around his cock.

But Martin was no Tyler Stetson. If Martin caught him looking, he'd drop the cigarette like it burned him - with Martin's luck, it just might - and stutter an explanation. And then he'd wait for Douglas to mock him, and Douglas would feel compelled to oblige, because there were so many things he could say, really, it seemed like a shame to waste them.

And MJN was no Air England, where one might not have the same co-pilot for years. He had to work with Martin, side by side, on every flight. Things could go... awkward, and even dangerous, if it turned out that all he wanted was a taste. Martin would never say it, but Douglas was a good enough people reader to sense that Martin didn't know the meaning of 'no strings attached'.

The glowing tip of the cigarette had almost reached the filter. Douglas took one last look, stowing away the memory of Martin's now-relaxed face and his half-closed eyes, then stepped away silently.

If this were a movie, he thought, he'd be hearing the distant chords of Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But he wasn't, and there was no music, just his soft, careful steps as he returned to the portacabin.


End file.
